His name was Paris and he was french. With the finest haircut, a good suit and an air of pastry and chocolat about him. He always rode his bicycle whilst walking his dog, paws padding to keep up with the turn of the wheels. The king of style. Brogues and a handkerchief. He muttered everyday words like ‘Nuuuutella’ with careless ease, leaving me momentarily breathless in the Jardin des tuileries. He was the rain, the sun, the moon; the countless stars in that sky were his. He glistened on the hour, every hour when the sun set and darkness descended. He was everything. He was the tower, down which i fell, laughing through the cascade. He was the vast and eclectic view. He was the sun in the dappled shade, casting faint, grey shadows over my black, sweet coffee. The moules to my marinere. Muscular and soaked in wine. The cheese to my smile. He was the Vespa, abandoned by the lit canal; he was the heavy rain of running feet on the paving of this great, great city. He was the romance, the hint of magic that lingered in the air. He was the flick in the wrist of the painters that gathered in Montmarte, with their vast collections of faces. Charcoal, pastel, oil. He danced around the trees lining the champs elysees and sung to the accordions sighs on the metro. He was my ticket out of here, he was a gift. He made me generous, inviting me to fling my euros about. He put a beret upon my head. He knew the statues on a first name basis, he knew the monuments daily struggles. He understood Art Nouveau and the Hunchback of NotreDame. He cast spells on tourists, stretching out the scent of crepes, waffles and piping hot caffeine further than they would normally travel, pulling and pulling, weaving aromas around dizzy heads, in and out of streetlamps, clicking his heels and winking at me, as I watched from the steps of the Sacre Coeur, the sun warming the dome and my shoulder blades. He was enchanting, unstoppable. A stylish, conjurer; a genie. He was the fairy dust that caught in my eye and temporarily blinded me to all the worries waiting for me back home.
It was I who left him, for he never left me. I know he waits for my return, the familiar imprint on his chest reserved just for moi.
He was French.
His name was Paris.
He was mine.